


Yearbook | Pictures

by captnalbatr0ss



Series: The Captain and his Quartermaster [6]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stumbles across Rafe's old private school yearbooks, and he soon learns that there's more to see than just Rafe's yearbook photos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yearbook | Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> For an Ask on Tumblr — "I've just had this idea for a while. Rafe and Sam are fighting, Sam says something that offends Rafe and then he has to console him and get him to forgive him. I just have a weak spot for sad Rafe and Sam being all over him trying to make him feel better."

* * *

“Rafe?”

“In here.”

“Where? I don’t see you. Marco!”

Rafe leaned into view in the doorway of his office, both brows raised. “Sam, I know your brother has always thought that’s cute, but I’m not your brother.” Then he disappeared again, moving back to the corner nook of his office.

Sam shot Rafe a wink as he sauntered into the room, a beer in each hand. “Nah, you’re shorter. Even harder to keep track of.”

“Eat shit, Drake.” Rafe returned his attention to the box in front of him, but held his hand out for a beer. “Which one is this again?

“That Belgian one you liked.” Sam passed one bottle off, moving behind Rafe, peering over his shoulder. “What’re you doing, babe?”

“Going through some old papers. Office is getting too cluttered.”

“Want some help?” Sam took a sip of beer, his hand lighting on Rafe’s hip, slipping half into his front pocket casually.

“Ah…” Rafe furrowed his brow, his eyes quickly scanning each of the boxes he’d pulled out to go through. “You could go through that one, trash anything older than 2014.”

“A’right. Hey. Lay one on me first.”

“Seriously? How old are you again?” Rafe looked at Sam quizzically.

“You’re only as old as you feel.” Followed by a cocky grin.

“Mm. So you’re a horny teenager, then?”

“Maybe. Now gimme, or you can go back to your solo spring cleaning.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but turned, leaning up to give Sam a kiss. Sam pulled back, just enough, forced Rafe up on his tiptoes to catch his lips.

“Real mature.”

Sam chuckled, stooping to give Rafe a quick peck in return. Rafe rolled his eyes, but smiled as he turned back to his box, sifting through a few more files of paperwork.

A comfortable silence settled in, the occasional sound of papers shuffling, and the edges of folders against cardboard. Sam started humming something, a tune Rafe didn’t recognize. He was halfway through a thick folder of legal documents when he heard Sam gasp—long, exaggerated, mischievous.

“Oh. Oh yes. This definitely qualifies as buried treasure.”

“What’re you—” Rafe turned, saw what Sam held in his hands, and his eyes widened. “Sam, no. Don’t. Goddamnit, give me that  _right_  now. Sam!”

But Sam was scooting back, standing up, retreating with a stack of Rafe’s private school yearbooks in hand.

“Samuel, stop—”

Rafe blinked, frozen as Sam disappeared, as Rafe heard his footfalls on the stairs.

“WAIT.” He was finally up and scrambling after Sam, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Babe!” Sam hollered. 

Rafe heard him, struggled to determine which room the sound came from.

“Look at you in your little uniform. Fancy from birth, eh?”

“Don’t.” But Rafe’s voice caught in his throat, and Sam couldn’t hear him anyway.

“How come I never got to see these before?” 

Sam’s voice was louder, Rafe followed it to their bedroom at the end of the hall.

“How old are you in this one? Sixteen? Seventeen?” He was examining the cover of the last one from the stack, checking the date.

 _Shit_.

“Sam, please—”

“Ah, come on, I’d show you pictures’a me as a kid, if I had any. What’s the big deal?” He cradled the book easily in his hand, moved to open the front cover.

Rafe rushed him, tried to grab the book before Sam could open it. He managed to grab a corner, almost pulled it free, but Sam tugged back, they both lost their grip, and the yearbook fell, spilling out a handful of Polaroids. 

Rafe dropped to the floor immediately, sweeping them all towards himself frantically.

“Rafe, c’mon,” he began, leaning down to grab one that Rafe missed. “I don’t see what the big deal is, it can’t be that bad—”

“I said  _stop_!”

But then it didn’t matter, and there it was—Sam fell silent when he looked at the picture, and Rafe closed his eyes, heat rising to his face.

“Rafe, I—”

Rafe stood, looking past Sam. His fists clenched, unclenched at his sides, and for a moment Sam thought he was going to throw a punch.

“ _Goddamnit_ , I told you not to. Why did you have to—” but his voice broke. “Fuck.  _FUCK_. You want to see them? Fine. Take them.  _Enjoy_ ,” he growled, his voice low, and he threw the photos at Sam’s feet.

He turned away, storming out of their room, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall.

Sam knelt down slowly, in a daze, and gathered up the remaining pictures, hands shaking as he looked at them. His chest felt tight, too tight, and his stomach turned.

They were all similar, in some ways. They were all Rafe, but different ages. They were all taken in the same room; the dresser, a lamp, a mirror behind Rafe, the same in each picture. In the first several there were tears—in his eyes, on his face. 

By the last few, his eyes had changed—there was that emptiness that Sam had seen so often before, still saw on occasion. A mixture of resignation and defiance, married together to become hollow, to become cold. 

The flash of the camera blew out the color, made Rafe appear lighter, the background darker. But even in the too-bright lighting, Sam could see the blood, the bruises. In the last one, the most recent one, there was a particularly nasty cut through Rafe’s eyebrow. Sam thought immediately of the scar there, realized he’d never known how Rafe had come by it. Not until now.

Sam looked more closely at the picture, over Rafe’s shoulder to the figure reflected in the mirror behind him. It was impossible to see his face—the reflection of the camera flash made sure of that. But Sam had a sinking feeling, a painful suspicion that he knew who it was.

Sam dropped the photographs, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Rafe. Rafe?”

Sam took a shaky step back from the photos, heard Rafe’s voice in his head, just before they’d played tug-of-war with the yearbook.

_Sam, please—I said stop!_

Sam headed for the stairs, bounded down them, looking for Rafe.

“Rafe, sweetheart?”

He skidded to a stop in the living room, no Rafe.

_Shit._

Sam head a clatter, a crash, and he spun around. Rafe’s office.

“Rafe—” He paused in the doorway, his whole body felt heavier when he saw the younger man.

Rafe stood in the middle of his office. Everything sitting on his desk had been swept to the floor. Computer monitor, lamp, papers—scattered haphazardly.  Now he stood, hands pressed to the bare surface, head bowed.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry, I—”

“I asked you, Sam. I fucking begged you.” His voice was soft, even, but Sam knew what was just beneath the surface, boiling. Rafe straightened, turning to face Sam. “Why?”

Sam took a tentative step forward. “Rafe, I had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you? How  _could_  you? But I asked you not to, and you just fucking  _ignored_  me, Sam. Because everything’s just a  _game_  to you.”

“I—”

“I mean  _Jesus_ , Sam, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, not for one goddamn second. You know more about me than fucking  _ANYONE_  now, and it’s still not enough!”

Sam shrunk back, opening his mouth to say something, deciding against it.

“It hasn’t been easy for me, you know? I’m not… I’m not  _used_  to this. I’ve reopened a lot of old scars for you, Sam. I wasn’t—” Rafe dropped his gaze, turned away again as his voice wavered. “I wasn’t ready for this one.”

Sam faltered, at a loss for words. He approached Rafe quietly, reaching out, placing a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. Rafe flinched, jerked away from Sam’s touch, and Sam’s heart sank.

“Rafe, I… Sweetheart, I couldn’t be more sorry.”

He saw Rafe’s fists clench again, the muscles in his back rigid.

“I swear to god if that bastard was in this room right now, I’d fuckin’ kill him. Rafe. I’d rip him apart for ever laying a hand on you.”

He heard Rafe take a deep breath, his voice was low, and hard. “Go.”

“Lookit, Rafe, I—”

“Samuel.” Rafe pursed his lips, crossing his arms. “Go away.” — Sam hesitated, lingered. — “Now.”

Sam relented, quietly leaving Rafe’s office, stepping outside. He fished in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, tapped one out. He lit up, smoking absently, lost in thought.

He considered the striking differences in the pictures—the Polaroids and the ones printed in Rafe’s yearbooks. It was hard to believe they were the same person. Sam had always been fascinated by Rafe’s ability to project whatever emotion suited the situation, and apparently he’d always been good at that.

In the yearbooks, it wasn’t quite a smile, more of a smirk. But it radiated confidence, self-assurance. No one would look at him and see what was underneath.

Sam didn’t know much about Rafe’s father—it wasn’t a subject often broached. Sam knew of Rafe’s nightmares, one in particular that he had with relative frequency, knew that his father played a part in it. But even that was largely a mystery. But Sam had never liked the man. He’d seen the damage he’d done, knew it up close—he saw it in Rafe. Daily. 

In little ways, in his quick temper, in the way that he was always so hard on himself—always so scared of failure. Rafe never felt like he was enough, and Sam knew those issues, those feelings had put roots down years ago, planted by an outside source.

Sam snuffed out his cigarette butt, went back inside. He’d given Rafe a little time, and he knew Rafe likely wanted more, but thought of Rafe’s desk—contents usually meticulously organized, now in disarray; scattered, if not broken. And he thought of Rafe’s temper, thought of the fact that above almost all else Rafe hated feeling humiliated—and that’s what this was, Sam was sure of it.

He walked quietly back to Rafe’s office, but Rafe wasn’t there.

He checked the living room, and the kitchen, and the bedroom.

Rafe Adler was in none of them.

Sam had nearly given up, nearly resigned himself to waiting—sometimes when Rafe got upset, he’d make himself scarce, returning to Sam when he was ready.

But as he passed the study, he heard a sigh, and the distinct sound of glass on glass. Sam stopped in the doorway, at the unspoken barrier that kept him from going directly to Rafe and wrapping him up in a tight embrace. 

Rafe sat on the sofa, leaning forward, tipping the bottle in his hand, refilling his glass—not his usual poison. Sam recognized the bottle; gin, this time, instead of brandy. 

Rafe’s back was to Sam, but he was aware of the older man.

“I thought I told you to go away.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know I can’t do that. Not for long.”

“Not even when I want you to.”

“Especially not when you want me to.”

Rafe took a sip from his glass, and Sam watched carefully, waited. He saw the subtle change in Rafe’s posture, a minor break in the tension, a slight tilt of the head, and just like that, the barrier was removed.

Sam crossed the threshold, and Rafe shifted over on the sofa to give Sam room to sit, but Sam dropped to his knees in front of Rafe instead.

Rafe’s eyebrows lifted in question, but Sam could tell from the look in his eyes that he was still far removed, that there was one more barrier that remained between them—the one outside was gone, but inside…

“Rafe.” Sam sat back on his heels, placed his hands on Rafe’s knees, looking up at the younger man. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe held Sam’s gaze for several beats, unblinking, unbelieving, then—

“Okay.”

Sam frowned. “Hey…”

“What.”

“I love you.” Sam offered the smallest of smiles, thumbs rubbing light circles on Rafe’s kneecaps. 

“Okay.”

Rafe leaned back again, took another sip of gin, and Sam dropped his forehead to the top of Rafe’s thigh, closing his eyes.

“You were right,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to Rafe’s thigh. It was without motive, without intention; it just  _was_.

Rafe remained silent, but Sam knew he was listening. He usually was—there wasn’t much that got by Rafe.

“I’m always pushing. Even when you’re not ready. I should’ve known. When you asked me not to, that should’ve been it. I should’ve dropped it,” he sighed, left another kiss against Rafe’s leg while he searched for words. “I just shoulda known. I should’ve listened. I’m sorry I didn’t. Rafe.” 

Sam lifted his head, leaned back to look up, saw that Rafe was watching him, regarding him with a look that Sam had become very familiar with.

It was one of quiet consideration. It was Rafe ingesting each word, tasting them, testing them, one by one, deciding whether to swallow them or spit them out.

Sam lifted up on his knees, reached a hand out to trail his fingers through Rafe’s hair, caressing his cheek. The backs of his pointer and middle fingers glanced across the scar on Rafe’s eyebrow, and Rafe closed his eyes, silently accepting the gesture.

Sam leaned closer, pressed his lips against Rafe’s forehead, his temple. He moved one hand to Rafe’s right shoulder, followed the lines of his arm down, and gently took hold of the glass. Rafe opened his eyes, met Sam’s, held them as he loosened his grip, let Sam set the glass aside.

“Rafe.”

Rafe blinked at his name, but his expression didn’t change.

“Sweetheart.” Sam frowned, ignoring the dull ache building in his knees.

He framed Rafe’s neck, one hand on either side, letting his fingertips gently rub. Relax. Subdue.

Sam watched Rafe’s face, saw the beginnings of the hardness start to melt away. Slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he tried again, hooking a finger under Rafe’s chin, ensuring that Rafe looked at him—he needn’t have worried, Rafe still watched him; still silent, and then finally he sighed, bowed his head.

Sam took it as a step in the right direction, lifting off his knees and sitting next to Rafe, leaning back against the sofa and gently tugging Rafe closer, relaxing a little more when Rafe quietly obliged, laying on top of Sam.

Rafe listened to the steady cadence of Sam’s heart, soaked in the warmth that radiated off of him. He closed his eyes, savoring the smell of cologne, of smoke, of Sam. He felt Sam’s arms slip around him, his hands begin to trace light patterns across his back, his shoulders.

He shifted closer, fitting himself in the small space between the back of the sofa and Sam’s side, and Sam lifted his arm slightly as Rafe settled in, returned it to Rafe’s body again as the smaller man pressed his cheek against Sam’s shoulder.

“It started when I was eight.” Rafe was staring straight ahead, but not at anything in the room. He was staring down the moments, the memories. “It stopped when I turned eighteen.”

“Jesus,” Sam whispered, frowning deeply.

“To teach me to say the right things.”

Sam tightened his grip on Rafe, suppressing his anger in favor of letting Rafe talk through it. 

“The belt was to correct me. The pictures were to embarrass me. The way I embarrassed him, he would say. By speaking out of turn, or being disagreeable.”

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head, but Rafe spoked up again.

“I’m angry because it never worked before.”

Sam furrowed his brow, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of Rafe’s face—he was confused.

“What?”

“It never did embarrass me. Not then—not during, or after. It didn’t embarrass me that he took pictures. I knew if he’d wanted to, he would’ve corrected me in front of everyone. He never did, not like that, and that’s how I knew he’d never show anyone, so what the hell did I have to be embarrassed about?”

Rafe sighed, sitting up and reaching for his glass again, downing the rest of the gin in one swallow as Sam edged up on his elbows to watch.

“It’s why I kept them. To remind myself that even with his threats, his heavy hand, he couldn’t break me by sheer force alone, even though he wanted to. Not then, not that way.”

Rafe finally looked at Sam, finally met his eyes again, and Sam saw straight through—Rafe let him in.

“I saw you with those fucking yearbooks, and I remembered they were there— That’s the first time I’ve ever been embarrassed about them. And I’m fucking furious that it finally worked. You, of all people, the  _only_  person that I—”

“Rafe…” Sam reached for him again, and again Rafe let himself be pulled down.

“I’m still pissed at you, Sam.”

“I know.”

Rafe closed his eyes again when Sam offered up more kisses—light and sweet and unhurried—against whatever part of him was within reach. He allowed Sam to shift him, shift  _them_ , until they were spooned on the couch, Rafe’s body a perfect fit against Sam’s chest.

“I love you,” Sam sighed, one palm flat against Rafe’s chest and massaging firmly until he felt the smaller man finally release the last of the tension in his shoulders, until he felt his body relax. “I love you.”

Rafe sighed, focused on the pressure of Sam’s hands, and on his soft whispers. On the reassuring strength he felt in the body behind him. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, not for Rafe—relinquishing that control, letting someone else be at the helm of his emotions. But he tried. He was learning to try.

“I know,” Rafe replied quietly, feeling a low pulse of warmth course through him as Sam’s arms tightened around him. “I love you, too.”


End file.
